


something started crazy

by JBS_Forever



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker has the Venom Symbiote, Tired Peter, Tony Stark Needs a Vacation, bur he doesn't know it, peter has communication issues regarding his own well being
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBS_Forever/pseuds/JBS_Forever
Summary: “Kid,” Tony says. “If something is wrong, you need to tell me.”But Peter is half-asleep, dreaming of flying, of black tendrils covering his body, surrounding him, an ooze he scratches and claws at in a desperate attempt to free himself.“Nothing is wrong,” he says, except it is. Except he should have known it was the moment his suit turned black.He's made a terrible, terrible mistake.- - -Based on this anon prompt: “a certain well known space parasite makes its way to earth and weird things start happening to our poor, naive Peter Parker.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based on a prompt from an anon, and because I've longed to bring Venom into the MCU. anon said: “a certain well known space parasite makes its way to earth and weird things start happening to our poor, naive Peter Parker." I couldn't resist.
> 
> (also, I changed the summary of this story, so my apologies if you saw the old version first and were confused)

The explosion is so loud Peter feels it reverberating in his chest.

He blinks up into nothing, vision hazy, Tony's voice yelling, “Spidey, ceiling!” still echoing somewhere in his brain. He'd managed to follow the instruction in the split second before the discharge and now he's not sure it mattered at all, the world spinning around him, his ears ringing painfully. His whole body hurts.

Stunned, he lays there on his back, his growing consciousness filling in the missing pieces. There's smoke, thick and suffocating in his lungs, a layer of ash blanketed across heaps of concrete and broken up floor and the glass of blown-out windows. This had been a building a minute ago – or ten minutes, an hour, a day. Peter doesn't know. He remembers standing in the center of the room, remembers the way Tony had called to him from just outside the door, and –

_Tony. _

“Shit – _ow_.” Peter scrambles to a sitting position, his head pounding. Tony was here when the explosion went off too, but Peter can't find him through the blinding clouds of white. “Mr. Stark?" he says. "Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Static crackles through the comm. Peter taps on his ear with clumsy and stiff fingers. “Mr. Stark?” he tries again, and gets no response. He rolls his mask to his nose to spit out the gummy taste of dust between his teeth. His tongue feels like sandpaper.

“Um, hello?” he says. “Anyone? Karen, is my comm working?”

Karen is quiet too, and Peter fights down the rising panic. The lab, sprawling and bigger than his and May's entire apartment, had been hard enough to maneuver when it was whole. It's impossible now to see past the swinging lights, the upturned tables, the caved in chunks of ceiling.

“Okay,” Peter says. “Okay, okay. Be cool. It's fine. Dunno where anyone is. I think I broke my – well, everything. Some bad guys blew up their lab, which is, you know, kind of inconsiderate because I was in it, and also a huge waste of money, but whatever. It's not my life. I'll just –”

“_Kid_.”

Peter jumps. He fumbles with his mask, yanking it back down. “Mr. Stark? Hey – are you – are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Tony says through the comm. He sounds muddled, like he's underwater. Something must have messed with their transmissions.

“I'm fine too,” says Rhodey. “Thanks for asking.”

Peter's laugh comes out too high, frantic and sharp with relief. He coughs and his ribs ache in protest. “Sorry. I dunno what happened. None of my tech was working.”

“Yeah, it was,” says Tony. “Your ears weren't. We could hear you the whole time. Where are you?”

“Um.” Peter looks around. Surrounded by debris and dust, one hand flat on the floor, he levers himself to stand, wincing. “Next to the huge hole.”

“Oh, right. The huge hole. I know it well. I like to dig one for myself pretty often.” Peter can practically hear Tony rolling his eyes. “Care to be more specific?”

“Kind of hard to be specific when the whole place looks like that scene from _War of the Worlds_. You ever see it? That scene when he comes out of the house and there's an airplane and like the whole neighborhood is destroyed? It has –”

“Tom Cruise,” says Tony. “Yeah, I know. I helped build some of the explosives in that movie.”

“Seriously?" Peter says. "That is _awesome_.”

Rhodey sighs. “Are we really doing this right now? Are we gonna ignore the guys who _literally_ just tried to kill us? Is that what's happening?”

“Hey, how come they blew up their lab?” Peter asks. He knocks into an overturned chair and catches himself on the wall. It holds under his weight. Faintly, sunlight pokes through the mess of chaos. “I can see windows.”

“East side, Tones,” says Rhodey.

“On it.”

Peter stumbles his way past more rubbish. “Did they know we were coming?”

“It's possible,” Tony says, and Peter hears him both through the comm and in person too. The thrusters of the Iron Man suit buzz as he moves closer. “But they probably had a fail-safe anyway.”

“Typical bad guys.”

“Typical bad guys hiding an alien creature they stole.” Tony hums in the back of his throat, annoyed. “I hate Oscorp.”

Peter makes it to the windows the same time Tony touches down in front of them. He came on this mission for one reason and one reason alone: to see the creature the government has been making a fuss over after it was stolen from one of their facilities. He had to annoy his way into convincing Tony to let him join in the first place and now he's got a killer headache and the creature isn't even here anymore.

“Man,” he says. “Just my luck.”

Rhodey mutters something under his breath. “You got him, Tony?” he asks. “I need to do a sweep and make sure there's no one else in the building.”

“I got him,” Tony says. His faceplate folds down. They're close enough to catch the autumn breeze rolling in from outside, but Tony crinkles his nose against the acrid fumes of smoke and ash. He steps closer to Peter. “You all right?”

“I think so,” Peter says. “Just kind of feel like I stuck my head in a blender.”

Tony scans over him. “Yeah, well, I'm not surprised. You were right next to that explosion. It blew me and Rhodey out of the room. Looks like we're gonna need to fix your suit.”

Peter looks down at himself. Tony is right – his suit is shredded along his legs and stomach, blood drying in patches on his skin, and the spots shading his arms look like small circles of embers burnt through the material. All things considered, it held up better than Peter thought it would.

“Oh,” he says. His head spins. “Whoops. I think I need to sit down.”

“Yup,” Tony says, and catches him under the arms, easing him to the floor.

\- - -

In study hall that week, Ned scoots his desk closer to Peter's and angles his phone between them. "What's it called again?" he asks.

“A symbiote,” Peter says. At the front of the room, Ms. Marie flips through a magazine, sparing only a glance at her class. 

“Wouldn't it be sym-_bye_-oat?” 

Peter shoots Ned an unimpressed look. “Dude,” he says. “There's a cool, black alien thing running around New York and you wanna talk pronunciation?”

“Right, right. My bad,” Ned says. “What does this thing do anyway?”

Peter shrugs. “Who knows. Mr. Stark says it's dangerous though. I guess it came in on that space shuttle last week.”

They watch the footage from the news, pictures of the destroyed lab filtering across the screen. Police linger behind yellow caution tape. A reporter says, “According to witnesses, Iron Man, Iron Patriot, and Spider-Man were at Oscorp when the detonation went off. A rep from Stark Industries said the heroes were there to retrieve the extraterrestrial being but were unsuccessful in their attempt.”

“Oscorp?” Ned whispers. “Why was it there?”

“Probably because some rogue employees wanted to do experiments on it or something. I don't know.”

Ned bites his bottom lip, his eyebrows furrowing as he grows serious. He stares hard at his phone, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft, cautious. “You were in that?”

“Yeah,” Peter says.

“And you're sure you're okay? That looks crazy.”

“I'm all good.” Peter holds his hands out in front of him, wiggling his fingers. He means it. He hadn't been allowed to leave the compound until he'd gotten a clear from the doctor Tony brought. It was all excessive and so unnecessary, but at least Peter can say with certainty there's nothing wrong with him anymore. “Spider-Man, on the other hand … well, Mr. Stark still has my suit, so I might be out of commission for a while.”

“Did I hear you talking about Tony Stark again?” Flash says from behind them, leaning over Ned's shoulder to peer at his phone. “When are you gonna stop pretending you're all buddy-buddy with someone who couldn't pick you out of a lineup?”

Peter doesn't bother replying, but he doesn't have to. Flash has already shifted gears, lighting up at the photo of Spider-Man currently poised near the reporter's head. It makes Peter uncomfortable, the way it always does when Flash fangirls over his secret superhero persona.

“Man, Spider-Man is the best,” Flash says, a little too loud. Heads turn at his exclamation. A row over, MJ looks up from the sketch she's working on.

“Are you in love with him?” she asks.

“What? No!” Flash's ears go red. “He's just a cool guy. He protects the neighborhood. Who wouldn't like him?”

“I don't know,” says MJ. “Peter, do you like him?”

Peter sputters under her bored gaze. “Uh, yeah, sure. He's – all right. Super nice. Really funny. Funniest person I've ever met.”

“Please,” says Flash, dismissing him with a sour expression as he fishes his own phone from his bag. “He's never even seen you on the street before. Give it up, Parker.” He types in his password and holds his screen up in front of his face, saying, as he walks away, “Hey, Flash Mob. It's your boy, here to talk about the latest Spidey news.”

Ned waits until he's out of earshot before he swivels back toward Peter. “Can you imagine what would happen if he ever found out?”

“I don't even want to know,” Peter says, shivering at the thought. “I truly and honestly don't."

Ned grins and starts the video over again.

\- - -

On his way home, Tony calls to tell him the suit won't be ready for another two days.

“Two _days_?” Peter says, and can't help the whine that accompanies it.

“Don't be dramatic,” says Tony. “You've gone two days without putting on your precious spandex before. You'll be fine. And anyway, I seem to recall a very expensive doctor saying you had several broken ribs and a nasty concussion. You should be taking it easy.”

“I'm already better,” Peter says. “Super fast healing thing, remember? It's a gift.”

“It's a curse. It's the bane of my existence.”

“I thought we weren't being dramatic?”

“That only applies to you,” Tony says. “Look, I'm putting in a few extra upgrades, so just keep your panties on.”

“Mr. Stark, I don't need –”

“Bye,” Tony says, and hangs up.

“– upgrades,” Peter finishes. He pulls his phone away. “Nice talking to you.”

Tony doesn't call again.

And two days later, just like clockwork, just like he said, Peter comes home from Decathlon practice and there's a paper bag on his desk and note that reads, _**Try not to rip this one. – TS**_

Nothing feels out of the ordinary when he puts the suit on. The holes are fixed. Someone has washed away the blood and dirt. It's clean and nice, and Peter is satisfied Tony hasn't gone overboard, but then Karen informs him of the sixteen new protocols, of the fifty new webshooter combinations, and Peter's luck has run dry again. He pinches the bridge of his nose and asks Karen to remind him to send Tony a message later.

“I need to talk to him about the definition of being dramatic.”

There's a knock on his door. May waits a couple seconds before she peeks her head in. “Oh, you got the suit back,” she says, cheerful as she eyes him up and down, nodding like she's satisfied. “How does it feel?”

They've come a long way since that day she found him in the suit the first time. From him proving his abilities to her while they stood on a rooftop and she fired a paintball gun at him and he dodged every shot, did it again with a blindfold on just to show off. She'd been silent while he hoisted trucks over his head in the junkyard and then she'd hugged him tight and they stayed up all night and Peter put everything out in the open, no more secrets, no more lies.

Of all the reactions he expected, the supportive, caring one wasn't it. But he's not complaining. He likes it better this way.

“Good.” He pulls his mask off. “Like normal, I guess. Just with more paranoid Tony involved.”

“That's new, isn't it?” May asks, pointing down to the black bands wrapped around Peter's ankles. He lifts his legs one at a time and examines them.

“Huh,” he says. “I'll have to ask him what they're for.”

May leans against his doorway. She smiles. “My nephew, the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Can I get your autograph?”

“Mayyy,” he complains, cheeks heating up.

May laughs. “It's time for dinner,” she says. “Let's eat.” In the kitchen, the fire alarm starts ringing, screeching sounds filling the apartment. May glances over her shoulder and back to him. “Let's go out.”

Peter laughs too. “Okay.”

\- - -

But halfway through their meal, as they're chuckling over the way their cheese keeps sliding off their pizza and how their toppings won't stay on – “Peter, you picked the absolute worst rated pizza place on purpose. I know you did.” “How could you accuse me of such treason? Ray's is a classic.”– there's a scream out on the street and the shattering of a storefront and Peter and May look out the window to see people running by in terror, booking it as fast as they can.

They race out onto the sidewalk and into the mayhem. Less than a block away, lighting strikes the side of a building, bricks tumbling and crashing down near a group of Girl Scouts who yelp and cover their heads. A second bolt of lightning hits nearby, and it takes Peter's eyes too long to focus, to realize it isn't coming from the sky, it's coming from a _man_ – a man with electricity crackling along his arms and chest. He reminds Peter of a villain Tony fought once, a man with a purple bodysuit who's glowing attack had come from some kind of transformerless multiplier circuit, except this man here is gliding along a power line like he's snowboarding and Peter's definitely gonna have to figure out how that works.

“May, get inside,” he says quickly.

May is frozen, hesitating. “Are you wearing it?”

Peter slides his sleeve up to reveal the red and blue underneath. Her eyes flicker between it and the man, and she nods.

“Please be safe,” she says, a hint of begging beneath her tone.

“I will,” Peter says. “Get everyone behind the counter. Keep out of sight, okay?”

The air sizzles and Peter's nerves go haywire. He pushes May back into the restaurant just as the lightning fractures where they were standing, and he leaps toward the alley, ducking behind the dumpster to ditch his clothes and slide on his mask.

When he reemerges, the man is further down the block. Peter tracks him in the sky.

“Shit,” he says. “Karen, give me points of contact to connect my webs to. I don't know how he's doing whatever he's doing, but if I hit something he's charging up and it's full of power, I'm gonna be one fried little spider.”

“On it,” Karen says. She closes in on buildings, circles red places with no voltage coursing through them. Peter traces the infrared path the electric guy leaves behind. He swings after him.

On his legs, the black bands grow, reaching up toward his shins.

“This is your reminder to call Tony Stark,” Karen says.

“Uh, what the hell, Karen? Kind of busy.” Peter touches the ground, sprinting to keep up momentum, weaving to avoid the falling pieces of rubble crashing down. A huge piece of a billboard for RENT plummets toward a little boy and his mom who are seeking shelter under the canopy of a bodega. Peter diverts his course and catches them both with an arm around their waists, smashing them against his hip and using his web to pull them along the street and to safety.

The billboard shatters on impact. Peter releases the pair and makes sure they're okay, ushers them toward a new building.

“There, go inside the Walmart,” he says. “You'll be safe. Great prices always save the day.”

“Now calling Tony Stark,” Karen says.

Peter takes off again after the man. “Dude, Karen, take a hint. Hang up.”

“Hang up?” Tony echoes. “You trying to prank call me?”

_So much for that_, Peter thinks. The one time Tony doesn't take forever to answer him.

“No,” he says. “Karen just has bad timing.”

He hits another point of contact. The man zaps a long whip of white-blue light across the pavement and it cracks. More people scream.

“What's that?” Tony asks.

“Video game,” Peter says. “Hey, what are these black things on my suit?”

“What black things?”

“The ones around the ankles.” Peter casts a quick look at his legs as he closes the distance between him and the guy. In his surprise, he almost misses his next shot, barely connecting to where he needs to be.

“Whoa, cool,” he says. “You added a feature to change colors.”

“What?” Tony says.

Peter is right on electro guy, gaining speed fast. He doesn't have time to chat anymore. “I gotta go,” he says. “Talk to you later. Thanks for the upgrade.”

He spares his getup another glance. His entire suit has turned black, every inch of his iconic colors masked in the new design. 

"So cool," he mutters.

And in his haste to stop this Thor impersonator from destroying more of the city, he misses Tony's suspicious and concerned, “Kid, I didn't add anything that would alter the color of your suit.”

Peter ends the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write a fic like this forever, so it was fitting that an anon on Tumblr sent me the perfect prompt to do so. I'm really excited for this and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Thanks for reading. <3
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://jbsforever.tumblr.com/)   



	2. Chapter 2

“Okay,” he says over the roar of voices in the street, over the rushing in his ears. He helps a man to his feet and the man mumbles his thanks, his words thick with an accent Peter can't place. “I know I was ragging on these new upgrades, but that was super amazing. Karen, did you record that? I need proof later.”

“The Baby Monitor Protocol is no longer activated,” Karen says, as if she hasn't told him this before. “Unfortunately I was not recording when the criminal got away.”

“Aw well.” Peter steps off the curb and stops. “Hey, _wait_ –”

“Spider-Man,” someone says, all stern familiarity that makes Peter turn, squinting past splintered slabs of stones and gravel and bricks. The whole block is littered with the remains of the electro guy's attack. Peter hadn't been able to contain him to one spot. He's lucky no one got hurt.

“Colonel Rhodes?” he asks.

Clad in his Iron Patriot suit, metal clunking awkwardly as he walks, Rhodey crosses the distance between them. The last bits of sunlight reflect soft pink off his shoulders. He reaches Peter and retracts his mask.

“Um, hi,” Peter says. “What're you doing here? Not that I'm not happy to see you or anything. Just – yeah. Curious.”

“I was closer,” Rhodey says. “Even though I specifically said 'not it.' Didn't seem to matter.”

“Did you say it last? Because if you said it last, you have to be it.”

Rhodey lifts his eyebrows, a silent response to let Peter know he heard him but is choosing not to continue their pointless conversation. The shadows under his eyes scream of exhaustion. His fingers drum against each other, impatient.

“Don't know what to tell you, Tones,” he says. “It looks normal.”

“Huh?” Peter says.

Rhodey taps on his ear. _Oh_. He's talking to Tony through his comm. “Red and blue just like before. Unless you changed that and didn't tell me.”

“My suit?” Peter starts, “It's –” and cuts himself off at the sight of red fabric. Somewhere along the way he must have switched the colors back, broke a protocol or accidentally activated something. He checks where the ribbons around his ankles were before. They're gone too.

“He's not a toddler,” Rhodey says. “And I'm pretty sure the rules of 'not it' haven't changed.”

Peter rocks on his feet. Down the street, people are emerging from shops and restaurants. He can just make out May's blue sweater in the distance.

“Uh,” he says. “Did I do something wrong? Was I not supposed to use that protocol? I don't even know how I did it, to be honest.”

“Hang on,” Rhodey says. He tilts his head, examining Peter. Peter wishes he was connected to the comm system to hear what they're talking about it, but it would be too obvious to ask Karen to patch him through now.

Rhodey says, “Spin around.”

“What?”

“Just spin, please. You can thank Tony later.”

Peter does as he's told, spinning slowly, face pulled and hands held out in confusion. “I didn't rip the suit again, if that's what he's worried about.”

“It's not,” says Rhodey. “You can stop.”

Peter does. “What were you looking for?” he asks, but whatever it was must not be there anymore, because Rhodey pinches the bridge of his nose, looking all for the world like he wishes he was somewhere else.

“Don't worry about it,” he says. “Tony is just being paranoid.”

“About what?”

“Does it matter? It's Tony.”

Peter smiles behind his mask. He's got an abundance of useless tech in his suit to prove that point.

“Yeah, I know you can hear me, Tones. That's the point,” Rhodey says, and taps his ear again. His expression shifts, this serious, fixed look Peter recognizes from nights of long missions and the hours of paperwork that tend to follow. “Hey,” he says, "While I'm here, I've got an assignment for you. I need you to be on the lookout for anything suspicious, okay? We have good reason to suspect the symbiote is loose.”

“The symbiote?” Peter says. “Like, the _symbiote _symbiote?”

“What other symbiote is there?”

"How'd it get loose?" Peter asks. "Does that mean it's in the city now? Could it hurt people?”

“I went through a debriefing on it when it first went missing,” Rhodey says, a little less agitated. He's picked up on Peter's changing tone, picked up on his worry. They'd both been there on that mission. They both know how important this creature is. “It was classified as non-violent. We're taking precautions though. Tony already had a team keeping an eye out. They're just going to have to refocus their scope. Someone higher up will send out a warning to everyone with instructions on what to do if they come across it. That's our best tactic right now.”

It doesn't seem like a lot to Peter, but he can't think of anything else to add. He nods, to Rhodey's clear relief, and searches again for May. She's already spotted him and is swerving by people, getting closer with every second. Peter trusts Rhodey, above all else. If he says the symbiote isn't violent, Peter believes him.

“You call me or Tony if you see it, okay?” Rhodey says. “We'll handle it.”

Peter nods again. “I will.”

Rhodey kicks a piece of a broken sign near his foot and takes in the surrounding damage. “Did you let this bad guy get away?”

“No,” Peter says. “He just … got away. Really skilled bad guy. Top of his class at bad guy school.”

“Okay,” says Rhodey, holding a hand out, peering at the sky. “You keep telling yourself that.” He frowns.

“What?” Peter asks.

“Did you feel that?”

"Feel what?"

But just as he says it, the last rays of light disappear. Dark clouds filter in, wind picking up loose pieces of paper and tumbling them across the road. A thick drop of water lands on Rhodey's cheek.

“That's my cue to leave,” he says, and flips his faceplate down. “See you later.”

With a whirl of thrusters working in overtime, he flies away just as the sky opens up and rain starts to pour.

\- - -

The symbiote is all over the news. Where it used to be intrigue and mystery, it's now media panic, frantic reporters speaking fast into microphones. Thaddeus Ross, the secretary of state, holds a press conference to diffuse speculation. He informs a dozen cameras that his best men are out looking, and that no one should worry, the symbiote is more like a frightened animal than a feral one, that it will look for places to hide and no one should approach it if they come across it.

“This is the same thing you guys were trying to steal back?” May asks. They huddle close on the couch in front of the space heater. May's sweater hangs in the kitchen to dry.

“Yeah,” Peter says.

“And it escaped somehow?”

_Escaped. _Hadn't they almost gotten killed trying to find it? If Oscorp was willing to blow their lab to pieces, how could they let the thing they were protecting get out? How could they let it roam New York?

“I guess," Peter says, because he has no other way to explain it. "I dunno. We never actually saw it. It might not have ever been there.”

“But Colonel Rhodes thinks it's in the city?”

“Yeah. Sounds like Mr. Stark does too.”

May brushes damp strands of hair from her forehead. She turns the TV volume up, and says, just under the sound of Ross's reassured promises, “I wonder if it's scared.”

Outside, the rain continues to fall.

\- - -

Two important things happen to Peter when he wakes in the morning, groggy and confused. The first is that he doesn't wake on his own. He sleeps through his alarm clock, sleeps through his phone's second reminder, and only startles when May calls for him to get up.

Rolling over, he hisses between his teeth at the spike of pain along his spine. He aches everywhere, muscles sore and tense. A headache pounds at his temples.

“Peter,” May calls again. “You're gonna be late.”

Peter groans. “Hmph.”

And because of the first thing, the drowsiness fogging his thoughts, he barely notices the second. Barely notices the puddle of water on the edge of his bed closest to the window, the soaked spot that drenches the sleeve of his shirt when he touches down on it. 

“Hmm?”

“Peter!”

He huffs and forces his stiff limbs to move. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I'm getting up.”

\- - -

“Electro!” Ned exclaims, jolting him awake.

They're in the cafeteria and Peter has his chin in his hand, his elbow propped on the table. He blinks, sleepy, and says, “Wha?”

Ned takes a bite of his mashed potatoes, gesturing wildly with his plastic fork. “You keep calling him 'electro guy.' We should name him Electro. Doesn't that sound like the perfect bad guy name?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Wincing as he moves, Peter slides into a new position, palm smashed against his cheek. He closes his eyes. 

“You all right?” Ned asks.

“Mhmm,” Peter says. “Just tired.”

“What about that sym-bye-oat? Have you heard anything else about it?”

He yawns and frowns at Ned. “Why do you keep saying it like that? And no, I know just as much as you do.”

“But you have inside sources,” Ned says, dropping his voice and casting a glance to the other end of the table where MJ is flipping the page of a book. She doesn't look up, but Ned speaks quieter still. “I'm so jealous of your life. You get to fight supervillains and look for aliens. You're literally living my dream.”

Peter drops his head onto the table. “You have weird dreams. And Electro wasn't a supervillain.”

“Dude, he _controls lightning_.”

“Pretty sure that's Thor," Peter says.

“Didn't Thor say he was the god of thunder?”

“You're giving me a headache, Ned.”

“How much of a headache? Like, on a scale of one to Electro?”

“_Ned_.”

Ned laughs, and Peter straightens up again, stretching until he hears his back pop. He looks at the clock on the wall. Three more hours and he's done. He counts his blessings that Mr. Harrington canceled decathlon practice today.

“I need an energy drink,” he says.

Ned scoops his tray up and follows him to the vending machine. While Peter digs his wallet from his pocket and shoves one-dollar bills into the money slot, Ned hesitates near the trashcan, looking between his leftover food and Peter.

“Have you eaten today?” he asks.

Peter stops to think. There had been no time this morning. He'd rushed out the door to catch his train, had barely even brushed his teeth and combed his hair. By second period he was so sore and tired his appetite was non-existent.

“Here,” Ned says. He grabs the apple and oatmeal cookie from his tray and hands it to Peter. For one, fleeting moment, Peter feels a rush of affection, a warm gratitude for the only real friend he's had since he was a kid.

_We like him_, he thinks, and shakes the thought away. Of course he likes him. He's always liked Ned. They wouldn't be friends if he didn't.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem,” says Ned. He dumps his tray and leaves it on top the trashcan. “So anyway, I think we should come up with a fan page for Electro. You know, like the one someone made for that walrus guy.”

Peter presses buttons one and three on the vending machine. “_You_ made that, Ned.”

“You have no proof.”

“Except you told me you did.”

“Oh.” Ned shrugs, easy, shooing away the motion. “Okay, so I'll make another one. Everyone is gonna love it! Spider-Man vs. Electro. The biggest fight we've ever seen. Who will win? Place your cash money bets here.”

The energy drink drops from the middle row and hits the bottom of the machine. Ned, still babbling away, dips low to fish it out.

Peter watches with another overwhelming sense of admiration.

_Yes, _he thinks. _We like him._

\- - -

In the summer after Peter first became Spider-Man, he made exactly one friend. Those days, before he figured out how to use his abilities, when he was still crashing into walls and bushes and parked cars as he tried to follow criminals, no one was on his side. He was more a nuisance than a help, always just missing where he needed to be, always causing just a little too much damage to consider his successes a win.

And then he met Danny. Danny, a big, burly man who owned a food cart on 10th avenue. “Danny's Hot Dog Stand,” he'd said proudly, and gave Peter a hot dog wrapped in foil. “You saved my life the other day during that shootout. I owe you a lot. You ever want free food, you come to me. I support our heroes.”

The social media posts came after that. Every week Peter checked in with Danny, got his hot dog – because patrolling made him hungry, and he was never one to ignore free food – and lingered to take pictures with tourists. As Spider-Man grew on Youtube, so did Danny's business, until one day he was getting so many customers he had to upgrade to a small truck, which he parked in the same place, gave the same name with a fancy new sign, and never broke his promise to Peter.

It's there, now, that Peter lays on the roof, his feet dangling over the side. A power nap and two cans of Red Bull and he can hardly keep his eyes open.

Danny knocks on the ceiling. “You want another, Spidey?”

“Hit me,” Peter says. “I haven't reached twenty-one yet and I'm still going strong.”

“That a blackjack joke?”

“Not if you can't tell.”

Danny grunts. “Can you even go inside a casino?”

“Hey,” Peter says, trying for indignant but coming up with a yawn. “I'm an adult.”

“In what country?” Danny hits the ceiling again. “Down on your left.”

Peter rolls onto his side, curling in on himself when the pressure of the hard surface below him meets the tender spot by his ribs. Danny's hand pokes up from the window of the truck. In it, a paper tray filled with two hot dogs and a mound of tater tots.

“Ooh, Danny, my manny,” Peter says. “You know me so well.” It's still hot too, which means Danny made it fresh. Peter folds his legs under him and rolls his mask up to his nose. A little girl on the street pulls at the hem of her mother's dress and points at him.

“Hey, how's your daughter doing?” Peter asks. “Walking yet?”

“Just took her first steps last week,” Danny says. “Lizzie's baby proofin' the whole house now. Can't even get the toilet open anymore.”

“That's rough," Peter says. 

“Wait till you have kids and you have to take a piss but can't get that damn thing unlocked. It's like Fort Knox. You got yourself a girlfriend, Webs?”

Peter chokes on a bite of hot dog. He pounds at his chest and swallows. “I wish,” he says. “There was one girl not too long ago, but it turns out people don't like when you send their dad to jail. Who knew?” It's joking like he wants, but the pang of guilt is fresh. Unanswered calls and texts and emails. Liz disappeared from his life the day she left Midtown, and as much as he hates to admit it, he misses her. He's sorry for her too.

Danny says, “Sounds like being a superhero ain't all it's cracked up to be."

“Not always,” Peter says. “But sometimes people give you food and that's pretty cool.”

“A promise is a promise.”

“You know the way to my heart.” Peter finishes his hot dog and pops a few tater tots in his mouth. The truck, warm from the stove inside, rumbles as Danny presses through the cramped space. Soft voices play from the radio.

“Looks like it's gonna start raining again,” Danny says. “You should head on home. No one stupid enough to steal in this weather.”

“You're probably right,” Peter says, eyeing the clouds in the sky. They look ominous enough, and over time Peter has grown not to trust them and their ever-changing moods.

He hops down from the roof, swaying with his vision. “Can you get me a to-go box?”

“Sure thing," Danny says. He turns, and Peter taps the spider on his sternum. It lifts half its body to allow him access to the twenty-dollar bill hidden beneath it, which Peter folds and sticks under a napkin holder, leaving the corner in view.

“Just kidding, I'll eat on the way,” Peter says. “Thanks for the food!”

A flick of the wrist and he's soaring down the street, bobbling his tray between hands as he shoots webs, chuckling as Danny yells, “Stop leaving me money!”

Peter gives him a wave and turns down the block.

\- - -

At home, sluggish and exhausted, he collapses face-first on his bed. His limbs fling around like dead weight. He doesn't bother to remove his suit. He's out before he can think about it.

\- - -

And then, for the second day in a row, he sleeps through his alarm.

During breakfast, May says, “Are you feeling okay? Are you getting sick?” During Biology, Ned says, “Maybe you should go home.”

Peter dozes through study hall, through Spanish. At Decathlon practice, wavering with fatigue and aching muscles, he tries to focus. An unsettling sensation of lost time jolts through him, like he's been running for hours and only just realized how far he's gone and how long it will take him to get back. When was this morning? When was last night? Yesterday? He hurts all over, feels like he did after the explosion in the lab went off – dizzy and flushed and in the wrong place.

“You don't look good,” MJ says quietly. “I think Ned is right. You should go home.”

A paper ball hits him in the back of the head. “Wake up, Penis! Don't tell me you're getting soft on us now. I told you guys he wasn't cut out for this.”

“Leave him alone, Flash,” Ned says.

Wordlessly, Peter lifts his head, fixing his stare on Flash. It takes a moment for him to come into focus. He's down below the stage on the gym floor, sitting with his legs crossed and propped on another chair. Smug is the best way Peter can describe him, all arrogance and rich-boy mentality.

“Loosen your leash a little,” Flash says to Ned. “What are you, his keeper?”

Something strikes Peter then – fear, frustration, rage. He imagines, for one small second, the way he could absolutely destroy Flash. Could wipe the cruel twist of his lips right off his face. It would be easy. Simple. Just push him with enough force. Twist the first chair one way, twist the second another. It'd break one of his legs for sure, and Peter has the frightening realization he could get there and back without Flash even knowing what happened.

But then Mr. Harrington clears his throat. He says, “Okay, that's enough. Michelle, let's start practice, yeah?” and Peter snaps out of it.

He's tired. That's all it is. He's tired and he wants to go home and sleep. He'd never hurt Flash on purpose.

_But he deserves it_, says some part of his brain.

MJ steps down from the stage and takes her place behind the lectern. The looks she sends Peter is uncertain, concerned. Flash sneers and sinks further in his chair.

_He deserves it_, his brain says again. 

Peter flips open his textbook and breathes until the thoughts go away.

_Doesn't he deserve it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are high schools allowed to sell energy drinks? 
> 
> So sorry for the wait on this! At the risk of sounding cheesy, I just want to say thank you to everyone who has stayed with me during the last year. It was a really hard time for me, but I'm going to be better this year. You guys being here means so much. I know I don't respond to every comment anymore (it gave me a lot of anxiety doing so), but I re-read every single one you guys leave me and it always makes me so happy. 
> 
> So I hope you'll keep sticking with me as I work to better myself. And if you're still here on this story, just know I appreciate you <3
> 
> (Also, I got the idea for Danny from aloneintherain's story "Safeguard." I just love the idea of someone running a food stand being friends with Spider-Man, so I added my own version!)


	3. Chapter 3

Because, on Saturday afternoon, Peter is nodding off at the kitchen table, May searches the internet for ways to help him wake easier in the morning. The options are endless. Orange juice and light therapy and carbohydrates and dextrose – just a quick spike of insulin, May reads from an article, while Peter shoves soggy spoonsful of cereal into his mouth.

“Black tea,” says May. “It says black tea is good. Do we have some? I'll get some.”

Sleep, for Peter, is like trudging through mud. He feels like he's stuck somewhere in the middle of a swamp, struggling to get out but going nowhere. It would be annoying if he had the energy to spare, but as it is, he just dumps his bowl into the sink and mumbles an agreement to May's suggestion of going back to bed.

He's face-down on his pillow, nearly asleep again, when a shrill, incessant ringing startles him. Blindly, he paws through his bed covers until he comes up with his phone.

“'lo?”

There's a brief pause on the other end, then Tony's voice comes through, sharp and in disbelief. “Did I wake you?”

Peter swallows a yawn. “No.”

“It's one in the afternoon.”

“I wasn't asleep,” Peter says. He's acutely aware of the way his voice sounds, raspy and low, his words dragging. There's no way Tony doesn't catch it. “Just resting my eyes.”

“Uh huh,” says Tony. “Well, sorry to interrupt your afternoon siesta, but I'm gonna need you to come by the compound in a bit. We're having a meeting on our little symbiote friend. Very important. Can't be missed.”

Peter blinks once, slow, at his ceiling. It's warm today, a heatwave moving in and out on a storm, and he's flushed with it, wrapped up in his blankets, his eyelids heavy. The faint scent of rain wafts through his room. He must have left his window open last night, but he can't remember touching it. He can't remember going to bed.

“Kid?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, automatic. “What's wrong?”

“You tell me,” Tony says, and for a moment, Peter isn't sure how he's supposed to answer. Did he do something? He searches through muddy thoughts for the last bit of their conversation, but before he has a chance to come up with a reasonable response, Tony sighs and starts speaking again. “Five-thirty. Happy is gonna pick you up at five-thirty. Make sure you're home and awake, Sleeping Beauty. I'll see you later.”

“Okay,” Peter says. He lets his phone slip from his hand and closes his eyes, falling back asleep.

\- - -

When he swings by Danny's food truck later, landing heavy on the pavement, achy and sore and two energy drinks heavier, someone screams. Peter stares at Danny a long moment, because he saw Danny's mouth moving right as he touched down, but in his mind Danny said something like, “Well, if it isn't my favorite costumer,” and not something equivalent to a female letting out a piercing cry that knives through his skull.

He opens his mouth, but Danny tips his chin at something behind Peter, at the girl sprinting toward them from a block away. “That's for you,” Danny says.

Peter finally gets a grip on himself. “You think?” he says. There's a tremor in his voice. He takes a steadying breath, feigning dramatics. “I'm not sure. Maybe she's just a big fan of hot dogs.”

Danny rolls his eyes, and Peter folds his mask up to grin at him, open mouthed and all teeth. He's still shaky, but he kicks out his legs, stretching them to release some of the tension and ache, and watches the girl weave her way across busy intersections. He leans against the outside of the truck, sprawls an arm on the edge of the serving counter. “Quick, do I look cool?”

“No,” Danny says, not looking at him.

“Aww.” Peter pouts. “Words hurt, Danny.”

“Stick and stones, kid.”

Peter rolls his mask down again. The girl is close now, and he summons what little charm he has left to the surface, hoping it will be enough.

God, he just wants to go back to sleep.

The girl finally makes it, bounding up to a complete stop in front of him. “You –” she wheezes, aiming her phone his direction. “You're – Spider – and – you – so awesome – Emily – I'm Emily.”

Peter hears Danny cough. It's teasing, probably, or maybe Peter has taken too long to answer. He's not sure. He feels like he isn't moving in current time, but there's another thing there too, becoming more prominent. Something like pride.

Pride?

“Nice to meet you, Emily,” he says, smiling so the eyes in his mask lift with it too. “Hey, did you want to take a picture?”

Emily nods. She's still holding her phone out, so Peter takes it and waits for her to move in close before he snaps the picture. Warmth floods through his chest when she takes the phone back to check her screen. It _is_ pride.

_We're famous_, he thinks. _Spider-Man is famous_.

But that isn't true. Spider-Man is no Iron Man or Captain America. Outside of Queens, few people bother to approach him in his suit. He's not famous. He's not _trying_ to be famous. He's just trying to help people, whatever that means.

“Thank you so much!” Emily says. “I'm super late for work, but I just had to meet you. You're the coolest person ever.”

Peter turns to Danny. “You hear that?” he asks. He ignores the way Danny pretends not to listen and continues with a petulant, “I'm the _coolest person ever_. The coolest, Danny. Danny, tell me you heard.”

To Emily, Danny says, “You want a hot dog?” He wags the foiled one in his hand like it might tempt her and tosses it to her once she accepts. “On the house. Courtesy of your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man.”

“Wow, thanks!”

Peter salutes Emily as she leaves, and the feeling of pride stays with him until Danny clicks the stove, once, twice, before it starts, and says, “So why didn't you stop by last night?” He mulls around the truck, wiping down surfaces. Peter gets distracted by the repetitive motion of his rag brushing against the tabletop. He can feel it in his bones. _Swish, swish, swish_. “I had a dog with your name on it.”

“Huh?” Peter looks up at him. “When?”

“After the concert,” Danny says. He tosses the rag aside “You know, one of them kids who used to be on the Disney Channel was here. I open my cart late sometimes when the venue draws a crowd. Get a lot of business. I saw you out and swinging about after it was over.”

It takes a painfully long minute for Peter to process this. “I didn't patrol last night,” he says. And he didn't, did he? After Decathlon practice, he was so tired it took every ounce of strength he had to make it home and crawl into bed. May had to wake him for dinner, and he slept through breakfast and lunch this morning. “I'm, uh, a growing boy, you know,” he says. “Gotta get my eight hours.”

Danny busies himself by dropping a few hot dogs onto the grill. What normally would make Peter's stomach rumble in anticipation now has nausea squeezing his insides. “Really?” Danny says. “Guy looked just like you, except his suit was black. I thought you were just going stealth mode. Blending into the night.”

“Stealth mode?” Peter asks. He tilts his head to the side. “Have you been playing Fornite?”

“I've been playing 'Shut the Hell Up,' is what I've been playing. You ever hear of it?”

Peter laughs, but the sound is hollow in his ears. A black suit sounds suspiciously like him, like the feature he broke when he was fighting Electro. Maybe he did go patrolling after all. Maybe he was just so tired he forgot.

He pries his mask up again to rub at the itch on his nose. Rhodey never explained anything about the suit changing colors. Neither did Tony. Whatever Peter messed up must not have been that bad in the end, or there would probably be another hundred new protocols to protect Peter against it. And Tony has remote access, can work on things from afar, so it could have been his fault just as easily as it could have been Peter's.

He pulls his hand away, and notices, out of the corner of his eye, the red streak smeared across his skin. It registers in the back part of his brain as a warning. It's blood. He's bleeding.

Movement passes in front of his face. A wad of tissues presses against his nose. “That's all right,” Danny says. “It's the heat, is all. You're all right. Come, sit down.”

Danny guides him to the side of the truck and sits him on the steps leading up to the entrance. Peter doesn't resist when Danny's fingers wrap around his arm and bring his hand up to hold the tissues himself. His mind is blank, desperately trying to play catch up, to make sense of what's happening. Danny reaches behind him to turn one of the portable fans inside the truck around. He digs a can of soda out of the ice cooler.

“Here,” he says, and presses the cold aluminum to the back of Peter's neck. It sends shivers down Peter's spine. “Here we go. Just keep that pressure on. It'll stop in a minute. We just gotta cool you down a bit.”

Peter blinks at him. There's copper on his tongue, flooding his mouth. The blood, mixed with the dampening tissues, makes him sound like he's drowning. “I'm sorry.”

Danny waves him off. “No need,” he says. “Don't imagine it's very cool under all that spandex.”

“Guess not,” Peter mutters, but he can't figure out if he's actually overheated. Numb would be a better way to explain it, detached from his body, too light and too heavy at the same time. He hasn't had a nosebleed since he was a kid, and that was back when everything affected him so drastically – allergies and sinus infections and sensitivities of all kinds. Not once can he remember heat being a problem. “First time for everything.”

“What's that?” Danny asks.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“You always apologize for stuff that ain't your fault?”

“No,” Peter says, halfheartedly. Danny makes a noncommittal noise and leans forward again, grabbing a bottle of water from the ice cooler that he holds in front of Peter's face. Peter takes it from him. “Thanks.”

“Stay here a second and relax,” Danny says. “I gotta put the sign out front to let customers know I'm on a break.”

Peter moves to protest – he doesn't need Danny to babysit him, and he definitely doesn't want Danny to lose business because of him – but the can disappears from the back of his neck, and Danny disappears from in front of him, and Peter just exhales out into the mugginess of the street. A strange series of emotions swirl through him, and he closes his eyes.

He can't wait to go back to sleep.

\- - -

“What I want to know,” Secretary Ross says, voice booming from the phone placed in the middle of the conference table, “is what our next plan is.”

Through half-lidded eyes, Peter watches Tony sink further in his chair, fingers massaging his temples. Rhodey is stood across from him, arms folded over his chest. He shoots Peter a fleeting look.

“Do we have any witness reports yet?” he asks.

“Everyone and their mother, Colonel Rhodes,” Ross says. “Seems our press conference had the opposite result of what we anticipated.”

Peter runs the back of his hand under his nose and checks for blood. The worst of it stemmed long before Happy showed up at his apartment, but Peter is paranoid. He feels for the tissues in the front pocket of his hoodie just in case. The lights in the compound buzz quietly, stroking his headache.

Ross says, “I don't think I need to reiterate how dangerous it is to have this thing loose in the city.”

Peter sits up a little straighter. Just a couple days ago, Ross had been the one to tell millions of New Yorkers the symbiote wasn't dangerous, that it would hide if seen, not attack. Peter doesn't understand why he's taking it back now.

“Yes, sir,” Rhodey says. “We'll double our efforts. It's sure to show up somewhere.”

May's words ignite some spark of a flame._ I wonder if it's scared_, she asked, and he didn't think about it then. Hundreds of people looking for a creature lost on Earth. Maybe all the symbiote wants is to go home. Maybe it's lonely.

Rhodey clicks a button on the phone and Tony's fingers move to splay over his face. Something rings in Peter's ears, some fixed, mounting thing, like pressure rising.

“What does it look like?” he asks, and it occurs to him he's interrupted Rhodey speaking only after both he and Tony turn to look at him.

“What?” Rhodey asks.

"The symbiote,” Peter says. “Sorry. Um, I mean, I know it's black and it disguised itself like one of the panels on the spaceship, but I don't actually know what it _looks_ like.”

“It looks like ... play-doh,” Rhodey offers, but Tony rolls his eyes.

“He means slime,” he says, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. He slides the beige folder on the table toward Peter, and Peter, sleep-heavy and uncoordinated, barely catches it. “Rhodey isn't hip with the kids like I am.”

“Never say that again,” Rhodey says. “You're embarrassing me.”

Peter flips open the folder. It's there, on the first page – a picture of the symbiote, but it's just a big, black glob, a circle of gooey mass. Slime, like Tony said.

“It can change form, right?” Peter asks.

“It can stretch and mold itself, yeah,” Rhodey says. “But to be honest, we're not entirely sure what all it can do.”

“You said it wasn't dangerous.” The file says it too. Classified as non-violent, threat level low. “Secretary Ross just said it was.”

Tony plops a coffee mug in front of him. Peter would jump if he had the energy. He didn't even see Tony leave, much less come back.

“Dangerous in the wrong hands,” Tony says. “Oscorp's hands, if you didn't catch the super secret meaning there.”

Rhodey's expression pinches sour, mouth curled in a scowl toward Peter's mug while accepting the one Tony offers him. “Don't give him coffee,” he says. “He's, like, fifteen. Fifteen-year-olds don't drink coffee.”

“I'm sixteen,” Peter murmurs, warming his hands on the drink. “And yeah, they do.” It helps that Tony made it just the way he likes it, so full of milk and sugar and sweetener it has turned light brown. It tastes like syrup on his tongue, and he gulps it down to wash out the lingering remains of blood.

“Do you think it's scared?” he asks. The question seems to throw Rhodey and Tony. They look at each other and then back to him, and Tony's eyes narrow, verging on suspicion. Peter backtracks quickly. “Sorry, I just – May said something about it and I guess I was – wondering too.” He trails off. The lights buzz louder in his silence.

“I don't know,” Tony says, glancing at his watch. “Hey, Rhodey, take the kid to my fancy waiting room, will you? I gotta talk to Pep real fast before she leaves for DC.”

Rhodey arches an eyebrow. “Fancy waiting room?”

“Show me your waiting room and we'll compare."

“It's a living room, Tones. Not a waiting room.”

“It's a common area,” Tony says. “And bite me.”

“Grow up,” Rhodey says, lightly, but beckons Peter to follow him out of the room. Tony laughs, trailing after them.

“I will when you do.”

They part ways at the hall, and Peter tracks the elevator doors as they open for Tony. He'll go down another floor to where Pepper's office is, or go up to where the rooms are. Peter doesn't think Pepper goes to the basements often. He himself hasn't been down there a lot either.

“Do I have access to go downstairs?” he asks, and has a fleeting thought he doesn't voice. _Is that where all the weapons are?_

“I think you have limited access,” Rhodey says. “You have to have someone with you."

“Oh.” Peter rubs at his eyes. He checks his nose again. The living room – the common area, Tony called it – is the most familiar part of this place. It's where Happy often has him wait when he's going to be a while, and Peter likes it. There's a large couch angled toward a TV in the corner, a kitchen, a dining table. It always smells like the vanilla candles May buys, and it's warm too, comfortable, dim.

Peter sways, blinking fast. Rhodey steadies him with a hand wrapped around his arm.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“I had five Red Bulls,” Peter mutters.

“What?”

“I'm just kind of tired,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Well, sit down.” Rhodey walks with him to the couch, and waits until he's settled. “Are you okay to entertain yourself for a bit? I still have to deal with a few more phone calls, and Tony made sure to let me know, in no uncertain terms, that there are no take-backs.”

“Harsh,” Peter says. “I'm good though, Colonel Rhodes. Probably just gonna take a power nap. Recharge, you know?”

“Good idea. There are some gaming systems if you wanna play anything, and every movie you can imagine, but I'm sure you already know that. It shouldn't be too long.”

Peter gets comfortable on the couch. Even after Rhodey leaves, he must not go far, because Peter can still hear him, can hear muffled conversations, going over details he can't make out, and he lets it soothe him, curled in tight on himself, tucked into the cushions, his head resting against a decorative pillow. 

He lets it soothe him and he closes his eyes, drifting off.

\- - -

In his dreams, he's flying.

It's a senseless thing, the rush of freefall without the joy, his body going through the motions. He swings from web to web. The city shines bright and opaque in the dark, but everything else is black – his arms, his legs, his hands. Pure black. Tendrils of ooze covering him. He itches at them, claws at the substance in a desperate attempt to see his skin. A voice soothes his distress. _Sleep_, it says, so he does.

In the present time, a hand on his shoulder jerks him back to the compound, to the blanket laid on top him, to the way Tony is leaning over the arm of the couch, saying, quietly, “Time to wake up, Rumpelstiltskin.”

Peter stares at the ceiling. It takes a few too many seconds to drag himself the rest of the way awake, his body not willing to cooperate. He pushes himself up, brushing hair from his forehead. “Rip Van Winkle,” he says, thick with sleep. “Rumpelstiltskin is that weird one who says he won't take the girl's firstborn if she can guess his name.”

“Same difference,” Tony says, flicking his fingers. “One sleeps for twenty years, one tries to make shady trades.” He snatches the corner of Peter's blanket and pulls it off. “You ready to go? I'm taking you home today.”

“Where's Happy?” Peter asks, while Tony folds the blanket and drops it onto the far end of the couch. His shoes are on the floor. Did he take them off? He can't remember. He jams his feet inside, yanking at the heels.

“On a date, if he's lucky,” Tony says. “So you're stuck with me.”

He's already got a car parked out front, a fast, expensive one that makes Peter dizzy just looking at it. They both pile in, and it starts with a quiet hum. Above them, the sky is dark, the stars vibrant. Peter looks for constellations out the window.

“How long was I asleep?” he asks.

Tony turns up the heater. “A couple hours.” Peter spots Orion, spots one of the Dippers. He stuffs his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and realizes he's shivering. Tony says, “Happy told me you had a nosebleed earlier. You all right?”

“Yeah.” Weird, Peter thinks, that Happy would share that. “Just got overheated.”

“You always get nosebleeds when you're overheated?”

Peter lifts one shoulder in a shrug. He's starting to get irritated and he doesn't know why. He's still so tired, like he didn't rest at all.

“You wanna tell me what's up?” Tony asks. Beta Ursae Minoris, the North Star, Polaris. Peter thinks of the symbiote's home out there in space, lightyears away.

“Hey, Mr. Stark, what kind of stuff do you work on in the basements?” he asks, and it's like he has no control. The words just slip out.

“In the basements?” Tony repeats. “I don't know, there are tons of researchers down there. Why?”

“Do you ever make new tech?”

“Do you think I'm someone else? Of course I make new tech. Even the interns make new tech.” Tony doesn't sound mad, but there's something clipped in his tone, a weird kind of undercurrent that makes Peter thinks he's concerned. “Where did that come from?”

And Peter is – he doesn't know what he is. A lot of everything at once, angry and sad and curious. But why? He sees flashes of things playing before him, a small stream of reminders. Tony yelling at him about splitting a ferry in half, Tony taking his suit away, Tony ignoring his calls and his warnings and clipping his wings, grounding him when he longed to fly.

His eyes burn. He's over it. He and Tony have both grown, have come to better understandings. He's definitely over it, so what is this now?

“Kid,” Tony says. “If something is wrong, you need to tell me.”

“Nothing is wrong,” Peter says. “I'm tired. That's all. I'm –” Angry. Why is he angry? “I'm just tired.”

Tony's hands flex against the steering wheel. “All right,” he says, like he doesn't believe him, and Peter just searches the stars.

\- - -

He sleeps most of Sunday. May calls him to eat, and he feels better for a while, feels refreshed enough to joke with her, to watch a movie with her, but come Monday, he's miserable again, worse over. He forgets the last digit to the dial on his locker and has to go ask the front office. He stutters through his exercises in Spanish and bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood.

“You could have caught that bug going around,” Ned says between classes, worried. “If May can't pick you up, I can call my mom. She'd have no problem taking you home.”

“I can't go home, Ned. There's a quiz in math.”

“You can make it up.”

Peter drags his hands over his face. “Okay, yeah, maybe,” he says, and then, “No, I – god, I don't know.”

Flash saunters next to him, on his way to English. Peter knows this because it's Ned's next class too, and Flash likes to complain about the way Ned pronounces some of his words when they read out loud, though Ned calls it “flair” and not a mistake.

“Wow, Penis,” Flash says. “You look terrible. Out late hanging with your good friend Spider-Man?”

“Not now, Flash,” Ned says.

Peter zips his backpack closed. He's trembling, overcome with that sensation again. The frustration, the rage. Years and years of taunting and nicknames. It would be so easy to end this.

He holds his breath and passes a glance over Flash as he goes to leave. Flash's face does something complicated, flipping between emotions, expressions, coming to rest on something Peter hasn't seen before, something he can't identify now.

“Parker,” he says, reaching out. His fingers clamp down on Peter's wrist, and Peter's vision goes red. It happens fast, without thought. He twists in his grip, clutches down hard on Flash's arm, feels the hard bone under his nails. A yelp slips from Flash's mouth, and then it's over, like that, enough to bring Peter back, to see Flash is on the ground now, on his knees, cradling his left hand to his chest, and people are surrounding them. Ned's eyes are blown wide.

Peter stumbles back, horrified. _Doesn't he deserve it?_ asks that part of his brain, trying to justify. He just broke Flash's arm. “I – oh my god. I'm – I'm –”

“Peter,” Ned says.

More sounds swell in the hallway, new voices adding in, louder than the others. The air grows thicker. “Peter Parker just attacked Flash,” someone whispers, and it expands through the group, through the school. Expands and expands. A teacher tries to move students aside to get closer. Another opens the door to their classroom and peeks out.

Peter can't breathe. He takes one last look at Flash, gasping in pain on the ground, and runs.

_No_, he tells his brain. _He didn't deserve it_.

But his brain tells him what he already fears._ It doesn't matter now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sdangkdslagnjre. Okay, listen, I apologize this took so long. I rewrote this chapter three times, and it still isn't where I want it, but I figured it was best to just get it out there so I could stop fretting and move on with the next parts. Thank you guys for your comments and your patience. You are the world to me <3


End file.
